Iconic Images

If we think of the Eiffel Tower, the Sydney Opera House, or the Chrysler Building in New York City, we can see the image in our head, even if we have never seen the real thing. It appears as though the stream of images we have seen in photographs and movies have been seared into our memory banks. And we might even be able to sketch reasonable facsimiles if asked to.

After we have visited a place several times, or lived near to, driven by, or walked past a place for a number of years, we might also form an iconic image of that place. A personal example is the Fremont Baptist Church, established in 1892 with the current brick building being constructed in 1924, perched on a hill above downtown Fremont in Seattle.


For me, this iconic image of Fremont has materialized over the years. Yet the image I hold in my mind’s eye does not correspond to what you can actually see from any position on the street. What seems to occur is that our mind is able to recombine the fragmented, partial views we’ve experienced into a single iconic, memorable image.

About Copying

Back in 1963, an art history course at the University of Notre Dame required me to copy a number of art works. The idea was to supplement the reading about and viewing of art with the act of reproducing art. Here are three examples from my course notebook that I happened upon recently.

EPSON MFP imageDordogne Cave fresco of a bison


Veronese’s Head of St. Mennas (detail)


Frans Hals’ Young Flute Player

It had long been a tradition in the studio arts to copy masterworks as a way to gain proficiency, the thinking being that one could learn by imitating the compositional strategies, the strokes and blending of colors, and other techniques used by artists more skilled than ourselves. There are art teachers, however, who consider this type of copying to be a crutch and an obstacle to developing one’s own creative mind. Whether the practice of copying is good or bad depends ultimately on the reasons for doing so. The motivation for copying should not be merely the reproduction of a work. Rather, it should be seen as an attempt to explore the process of the original artist and just a single step in the learning process.

I should point out that drawing on location neatly sidesteps the question of copying. But note that even here, we are in a sense copying what our visual system takes in and interprets.

Surface and Depth

In the 1950s, the psychologist J.J. Gibson outlined a number of cues to depth perception. A few rely on our binocular vision and therefore do not apply to 2-dimensional drawings and paintings. Others, however, are psychological rather than physiological in nature. As such, these depth cues are pictorial in nature and are applicable to drawing and painting on a 2-dimensional surface. In the following, I try to use simple terms and snippets of my own drawings and photographs to illustrate each of the depth cues that I consider to be relevant to drawing on location.


Convergence of parallels: This is a key characteristic of linear perspective in which parallel lines appear to converge as they recede into the distance. Despite the usefulness of the other depth cues, linear perspective remains the structural scaffolding upon which to build a sense of spatial depth on the page.


Overlap: Near objects overlap or partially block the view of objects farther away. Locating effective overlaps can be useful in selecting a viewpoint and composing a drawing.


Position relative to the horizon: Objects below our eye level rise toward the horizon as they recede; objects above our eye level descend toward the horizon as they recede.


Relative size: Objects known or assumed to be of similar size appear to shrink in size with distance from the observer.


Texture gradient: Surface texture appears to get finer and smoother with distance from the observer.


Shading and shadows: Contrasts in light and dark can convey the shape, form and depth of objects.


Aerial perspective: Particles in the atmosphere affects the color and visual acuity of objects at varying distances from the observer; distant objects appear grayer or bluer and less distinct than nearer objects.

As we can see, scenes more often than not comprise a number of these depth cues operating simultaneously. Seeing how these depth cues occur in our real-life perception can aid our understanding of why things appear as they do, counter to what we know of the things we draw, which are often in conflict.

Casa das Canoas


While in Rio de Janeiro a month ago, we had the opportunity to visit Casa das Canoas, the first residence designed by Oscar Niemeyer in 1952. It is a true gem, nestled in a beautiful hillside setting and displaying the characteristic flowing lines of Niemeyer’s architecture. Thanks to Caique Niemeyer, Oscar’s grandson, for allowing us the privilege of touring this fine example of modern architecture.

After doing a few sketches of the exterior and interior of the deceptively simple structure, I attempted to draw a plan to try to understand the two-dimensional origin of what I saw in three dimensions.


To verify my plan, I perused several books on the architecture of Oscar Niemeyer but none contained a plan of this house. Upon returning to Seattle, I did an internet search and found this plan drawn by Jeff Hottinger, which is included next to the plan I drew.

In this age of digital 3D modeling where much design thinking and decision-making is made from a perspective viewpoint, it is still a useful mental exercise to try to imagine the orthographic relationships that plans and sections reveal and which perspective views do not. As designers, we should be able to think two-dimensionally as well as three-dimensionally.

Negative Spaces

Along with a few fellow architect-volunteers from the community service committee of the AIA Young Architects Forum, I met this morning with a group of middle schoolers attending the Northwest School Summer Camp. Our task was to introduce some basic drawing concepts to the young students. My topic was negative space, a concept that is somewhat difficult to grasp, especially when translating the in-between spaces that we see in real life into the two-dimensional shapes we draw on paper. After the session, I remembered an animation that I had created a while back when I was conceiving of a ebook on drawing. Here is an unedited version of Seeing Shapes.


Keep in mind that it is often easier to see shapes in a photograph and more difficult to see them when drawing on location from direct observation.

Black and White

With the rise of digital photography color has become pervasive, unlike the film era where black-and-white photography was prized for its confident and raw visual style. In the field of sketching, too, color sketches are often seen as richer and communicating more information than monochrome drawings, which many consider to be primitive and lacking emotion. Yet, utilizing a range of strokes, black-and-white sketches can express a wider range of feelings than one might expect…

from light and airy…


to dark and heavy…


from descriptive…


to illusory…


Act without Striving

Sometimes, we do our best work when we are the least concerned with the outcome.

Fresh1 Fresh2 Fresh3

By showing you these images, I do not mean to imply they are examples of my best work but there is a fresh quality to my drawings either when I don’t have the time to overthink a drawing or when I am demonstrating an idea or approach as I am teaching.



Whenever I view one of my own drawings or see someone else’s work, my immediate, instinctive reaction is to ask: How could the drawing have been improved? Sometimes, the answer is better composition; at other times, it’s more context. But the more common response for me is increased contrast.

I’ve written about this before but it bears repeating that contrast is a critical part of both seeing and drawing. Without seeing contrast, we are not able to differentiate one thing from another. And without drawing contrast, we diminish the hierarchy that creates interest and focus in a sketch.


There are several kinds of contrast that we can use in a drawing. Perhaps the most obvious is distinguishing between heavy and light line work to enhance spatial depth—what is near versus what is further away.


Another is contrasting areas of greater detail with spaces of lesser detail, or areas of precision with those of ambiguity.


And in the case of watercolor sketches, it is definitely necessary to differentiate not hues but rather zones of tonal values.

Another View of Foreshortening


Using the same broad outline of the Campo in Siena from two posts ago, I’ve overlaid the sketch with a diagram of the important points that I visualized in the scene—the extent of my view, the relative position of the Torre del Mangia, and the foreshortening of the Palazzo Pubblico.


To further illustrate the phenomenon of foreshortening, I’m using a plan diagram of the Campo to show where I stood as I sketched and my angle of view. You can compare the actual width of the Palazzo Pubblico, shown with the white arrow, with my foreshortened view of it, shown with the black arrow, and notice its position relative to the horizontal sweep of the Campo space.

You can also see, both in plan and in the perspective sketch, the positioning of the Torre about one-third of the way across from the right-hand edge of the view. I visualized diagonals to estimate the height of the Torre relative to the width of the space.

While these are necessarily optical judgments, not precise measurements, seeing these types of relationships and imagining them on the page as you set up a drawing on location are important steps in the process.



Foreshortening is the apparent change in form an object undergoes as it rotates away from our point of view. This phenomenon is usually seen as a contraction in size or length in the direction of depth, the amount of contraction depending on the degree of rotation. The more a line or plane is rotated away from our point of view, the greater its apparent contraction. You can easily see this as a door opens away from you. Gauging and drawing the phenomenon of foreshortening can be a bugaboo for sketchers because our mind can persuade us to draw what we know—the actual size or length of something—rather than how that thing might appear to the eye—its apparent size or length.


To illustrate a case of foreshortening I want to use this view of the Virginia V that I sketched this past Sunday before the Seattle UrbanSketchers group met at the Museum of History and Industry for its January meeting. One of the reasons for gathering at MOHAI is the beautiful exhibit there of Gabi Campanario’s impressive work documenting the life and times of Seattle over the past six years for the Seattle Times.

The Virginia V, built in 1921 by Anderson & Company and launched in 1922, was part of the mosquito fleet that plied the Puget Sound waters largely between the First and Second World Wars. After WWII, the Virginia V changed hands several times as it served as an excursion vessel. It was placed on the National Registry of Historic Sites in 1973. Completely refurbished by the Steamer Virginia V Foundation, the Virginia V is now anchored at the south end of Lake Union and continues to be used for public excursions and private charters.


In this view of the same Virginia V sketch, I’ve overlaid some markers to show the relationships that I gauged and used to control the foreshortening of the ship. The most important step is ensuring that the apparent length—from the prow on the left to where the hull curves away from our view on the right—is correctly foreshortened relative to the height of the prow. Then, I positioned elements, such as the wheelhouse and bridge, relative to the left and right extents. Note how I try to suggest the way the hull is curved from fore to aft. You can use the span of your hand, the shaft of your pen or pencil, or any similar means to gauge these measurements but it is an essential step in the process. Otherwise, your mind will strongly suggest that you should draw what you know rather than how it appears to the eye.